‘Have you told Gabe, yet?’ I asked.
He nodded, swallowing a mouthful of strong, rich coffee. ‘His reply came back so fast, I’m pretty sure him and Holly were practically sat on top of the phone waiting to hear what you said.’
As he spoke, his phone bleeped and he lazily put an arm out to reach it. Waking the screen, he smiled. ‘Talk of the devil.’
I waited, munching on some toast as he read it. ‘Apparently we’re invited next door for a celebratory barbecue. Want to go?’
I laughed. ‘Of course!’
Buying the other semi from Holly had been one of our best decisions last year as, with the help of connections she’d built up, we set about transforming it from the dated, dark place it had been when Gabe first rented it from Gigi, to the beautiful light and airy place we now called home. I loved having become closer to Holly and Gabe, and it was wonderful to see the two brothers build on and enjoy a relationship they’d missed out on, thanks to a combination of Nate’s ex, and distance.
Their parents, now having both their sons living here, had also bought a little flat in the city so that they could spend more time close by. It was unlikely they’d leave the sunshine of Australia permanently, but we all loved it when they were over, laughing and chatting and sharing good food and wine.
I was still writing for Chic and the first household book had done so well that there was already another in the works. And, as the various posts I’d put up about our house renovation on my ‘Lady S’ Instagram account had proved incredibly popular, there’d been interest in a book on this aspect too. I’d suggested bringing Holly in on that project as she now had a wealth of expertise on the subject and would be able to add a lot of veracity and depth to it that I couldn’t. The publisher had been hugely enthusiastic about this, loving the family aspect, and the project had received its green light on Friday. I couldn’t wait to start working with Holly on it, although I’d be keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn’t go overboard with work. She’d got better at that aspect of her life, with help from both Wishington Bay and her husband and family, but there was still a spark of it left in her and, with an ever-growing bump to manage, it was important she not let that tendency take hold.
I looked over at Nate, who now had his eyes closed, resting against the luxuriously padded headboard. The weekend had certainly brought with it plenty of good things. And, as I looked at the man I was to marry, this time for love, I knew that Wishington Bay had once again sprinkled some of its magic over two broken people, making them whole again. And making them one.
Acknowledgments
As always, thank you to James. Without your continual support and belief in both me and my writing, there is no way I’d now be sending my tenth (!) novel out into the world. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Thank you for everything you are and do.
A huge thank you to the amazing team at Boldwood Books, including Amanda, Megan and the amazing Nia. Special thanks go to Sarah Ritherdon, my editor, for her support, belief and guidance. Thanks also to the brilliant copy editor, Cecily and proof reader, Susan Lamprell, who both did excellent jobs tidying up the whoops moments.
Part of this book was written during the Covid-19 lockdown and, as for many people, it’s been a very weird and anxious time. I know a lot of my writer pals have struggled with finding creativity and concentration during this time, as I have, and I’d like to send extra thanks here to Rachel Dove for all the fun veggie growing/gardening chats which proved a great distraction. Thanks, lovely! Hope you and the family (and, of course, Speedy) enjoy the fruits of your labours.
A big thank you to those special people who have provided friendship and support, especially during the last several months, including Darren U who also kindly provided the seed of inspiration, and information, for Nate’s occupation.
Extra thanks to Jo P for taking me to the wreath making workshop last year (even though we never ended up making a wreath!) Not only was it a good giggle but ended up becoming a very handy inspiration for Sophia and co in this book.
As usual, I’d also like to send a big thank you to the bloggers who help spread the word about my books. Your time, reviews and support are very much appreciated.
And last, but not least, thank you to you, the reader. There are so many wonderful books out there so I am always honoured when you choose one of mine on which to spend some of your precious time. Hearing that it’s made you laugh, cry, or kept you up reading way beyond your bedtime (and hopefully all three!) truly fills my heart. Thank you.
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Chapter 1
‘That’s it! I am totally going to jail. I’m going to get it wrong, owe thousands, not be able to pay, and go to jail!’ I flung myself backwards with an overly dramatic sigh and lay sprawled on the paperwork I had been looking at. ‘And seriously? Me in an orange jumpsuit? I don’t care how on trend they are; I could never pull that off! Orange is so not my colour.’
Amy topped up her wine glass before reaching a hand down to grab my arm, tugging me in the direction of the sofa. I slid along the floor for a few moments in my prone position, like some sort of beached, four-legged starfish, until I eventually bumped into the furniture.
‘I think that’s more America, hon,’ she said, yanking me upwards. ‘I’m not sure what ours are like. Something much more subtle, I expect. And don’t worry. I’ll hide a file inside the first cake I bring you. You’ll be out in no time.’
I paused in my clambering from the floor onto the sofa, and gave her a look. She made a sawing motion with one hand, accompanied by an over-exaggerated wink as she held out my wine glass. Flopping onto the couch, I took the glass and swigged a large mouthful, before laying my head back onto the soft cushions.
‘Seriously though. I really don’t know what I’m doing with this. I thought I was handling all this business stuff OK until now.’
‘And you are!’ Amy interjected. ‘Your blog is doing amazingly well! I can’t believe the difference in a year – it’s incredible! Seriously, Libs, you should really be proud of yourself.’
I sighed. ‘Thanks, Ames. And I am, and of Tilly. I couldn’t have done it without her. But I’m so frustrated! I’ve taken on this insane learning curve and, for the most part, got the hang of things. I think. But this?’ I kicked a piece of paper with my bare toes. ‘This, I just cannot get my head round! Why does tax have to be so bloody complicated? They send you this stuff so that you are supposedly able to do it yourself, but write it in the most confusing language possible! How is that even remotely helpful?’
Amy just shook her head and took another sip of wine.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I need to start looking for an accountant.’ I twiddled the wine glass stem in my hand.
Amy leant over and bumped her head gently on my shoulder. ‘You know; it is OK to ask people for help sometimes. We can’t all be amazing at everything. Creating all this in such a short space of time is brilliant, Libby. Finding that you need some extra expertise in one area is perfectly acceptable, and perfectly normal.’
‘I guess.’ I put the glass down. ‘Before I forget, I have something for you.’
Immediately, Amy sat up straighter in anticipation and her eyes watched me as I crossed to the other side of the room and picked up a small, but fancy, cardboard bag with intricately twisted rope handles and a swirly script logo on the side. Walking back over to the sofa, I plopped the bag down on Amy’s lap.
‘Did I ever te
ll you that going for it with this lifestyle blog business is the best thing that you’ve ever done?’
I laughed. ‘You just like the freebies.’
‘True,’ Amy agreed, before letting out an ‘ooh’ of pleasure at the eyeshadow palette and perfume she’d just pulled out of the bag.
‘But thanks anyway.’
‘Any time. Oh!’ Amy’s eyes shone like those of a child who’d just won pass the parcel. ‘Really? I can have this?’ Without waiting for confirmation, Amy began excitedly spritzing the exclusive new perfume copiously on pretty much every pulse point she could reach, including mine.
Laughing, I lifted my wrist up to take another waft of the fragrance. It really was gorgeous. I smiled as my friend rummaged in the bag, unwrapping the various goodies from their pretty tissue-paper packaging. The cosmetic companies often sent more samples than I could possibly use so I always made sure my assistant got some to review and regularly ran giveaways on the blog, as a thank you to my readers. But occasionally I still had extra goodies left over. Amy always loved a good freebie so when I had something spare, it meant I got to make my best friend happy.
As the fumes of Amy’s fragrance enthusiasm began getting a little pungent, I pushed myself up and padded over to the doors that led out onto the balcony. Grabbing the handle, I slid the door to the side. Immediately, a warm breeze rushed in from the sea, dissipating the perfume, and bringing with it the screech of seagulls intertwined with chatter and laughter from the nearby bars and restaurants in the marina. I stepped out, grabbing a wide-brimmed, slightly battered straw hat off the nearby console table, and took a seat on one of the two wooden steamer chairs that resided on my balcony. Amy followed me out, wine glass in hand, the gift bag now swinging off her wrist.
If I was honest, the furniture was a squeeze and a trendy little bistro set would have been a better, more sensible option. I’d made the classic mistake of ‘guesstimating’ that they would fit perfectly on the balcony. They didn’t and I’d ended up building them in situ like some sort of furniture Jenga, which had proved to be the only way of getting them both to fit on there. But I loved them. I didn’t want a trendy little bistro set. The loungers were super comfy with full-length padded cushions, and reclined just enough without touching the glass. I could sit out here and read in comfort, watching the boats sway and bob gently in the marina, listening as the sound of waves bumping against the harbour wall carried across the water. Even in winter, when the wind howled and the sea reared up before crashing down forcefully onto the nearby beach, I would happily sit out here, wrapped up against the cold, just absorbing it all.
There was definitely no need for coats and scarves this evening. It seemed that spring had decisively handed off the baton early to summer and the new season was away and running. The evening was warm and the breeze soft as Amy and I, now having inelegantly climbed onto our respective loungers, sat back and sighed happily.
‘Thanks for all this, Libs.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ I replied. Forgetting my worries for a while, and with a smile on my face, I closed my eyes, soaking up the atmosphere as the gentle warmth of the setting sun caressed our skin.
Closing the Twitter app, I leaned over, grabbed my handbag and proceeded to tip the contents out onto my desk. Tilly, my part-time assistant, looked up from where she’d been leafing through the latest issue of Vogue that had dropped through the door this morning. She raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Apparently it’s national “What’s in your handbag?” day. I thought we could join in,’ I replied, poking the pile of stuff now in front of me.
‘We?’
‘Yes.’ I paused, looking over at her. ‘Why not? You haven’t got a loaded weapon in there, have you? Or half a kilo of cocaine?’
‘No! Of course not!’
‘I’m joking, Tils. You just looked decidedly shifty when I mentioned it. It’s fine if you don’t want to do it, anyway. It’s not compulsory.’ I grinned, before turning my attention back to the contents of my bag. A tampon sat proudly in the middle of the pile. I chewed my lip for a moment, and then snagged the item out and put it to the side.
I noticed Tilly watching me.
‘So, we can edit what’s in there?’ she asked.
I raised a brow. ‘I don’t think the world needs to see my emergency sanitary items. There’s sharing and there’s over-sharing.’
Tilly waited a beat before grabbing her own bag and turning it upside down on her own desk.
‘Holy crap, Tils!’ I laughed. ‘How do you even carry all that without tipping over?’
‘I keep meaning to clear it out and never seem to get around to it.’
‘Apparently. Well, why don’t you take this as an opportunity? Sort out what you want in there and then we can just post the “after” rather than the “before”.’
Tilly pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure you should be paying me for sorting out my handbag.’
I waved her protest away.
A grin slipped onto Tilly’s face. ‘OK.’
For the next twenty minutes, there were several exclamations of the ‘Bloody hell, I’ve been looking for that forever’ and ‘Oh, I wondered where that had gone!’ variety. By the time she had finished, Tilly’s bag was about half a tonne lighter and the nearby waste-paper basket was overflowing. Artfully arranging each pile to look specifically unartfully arranged, but in a pleasing manner, we moved the lights over to the desk and photographed each one – the contents in sharp focus with the handbags themselves slightly out of focus in the background. Tilly emailed me her copy for the post, listing the items her bag now contained and their significance, if any, which I then added to my own piece, before quickly typing an introduction about the hashtag. Finally, I copied and pasted a bunch of hashtags we commonly used for blog posts, and added the #whatsinmyhandbag tag to the bottom. With the photos loaded, I ran the spellchecker then gave the text a final scan as a triple check. Satisfied that there were no errors, I pressed submit and the post went live on my Brighton Belle lifestyle blog.
‘Do you still want to try that photo shoot on the beach tomorrow morning? I’ve just checked the weather, and it’s looking good.’
Tilly and I were scanning the list of planned blog posts we’d compiled for the next few weeks. These were flexible to a degree, which allowed us to comment on any hot, relevant topic that came up, but planning was an essential part of running the blog. It didn’t tally too well with the glamorous ideas that some people had of what I did for a living, but it was most definitely a necessary part. Like a lot of jobs that people only saw a small part of, there was a much bigger, far more mundane part to it.
‘Ideally.’ I nodded as I scanned my calendar. ‘So long as you don’t mind coming over early? I can get everything ready and packed in the car so that we can just go straight there and hopefully catch some good light, as well as beating the crowds.’
‘Fine with me. I think it’ll be fun! We’ve always stayed around the marina for pictures before, so I think it’s good to try and incorporate some more of Brighton into the shoots. And who doesn’t like the beach?’
‘Great. Thanks, Tilly. Hopefully it’ll all go well. With a bit of luck, we might even find we’re naturals at this whole “on location photo shoot” thing.’
We most definitely weren’t naturals. I heard the wave first. And then I saw it. Briefly. Very briefly. It was, in fact, just long enough for me to open my mouth, ostensibly to make some sort of noise signifying surprise, but in actuality it just ensured that I swallowed what felt like a third of the English Channel before the force of the water overtook me and unceremoniously washed me up onto the beach like some bit of old shipwreck detritus. Opening my mouth had definitely been a bad move.
‘Libby!’ Tilly’s panicked voice came to me through the gurgly water sounds now filling my ears.
Spitting out seawater and goodness knew what else, I quickly stood, the shock of the cold water propelling me to move. Pushing my hair back from my
face, I made to step forward, inelegantly wobbling on the uneven pebbles. The next wave crashed into the back of my legs and, unbalanced, I took another tumble. Thinking that a gradual ascent to standing might be more successful, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. From the corner of my eye I saw a nearby windsurfer, out for an early morning sail, fall head first off his board. At least I wasn’t the only one taking an unexpected dip. Although admittedly, he was more suitably dressed for the water than I was. The pebbles of Brighton beach dug into my knees and I made ouchy noises as I got myself fully upright once more.
‘Are you all right?’ My assistant had now made her way to me and was staring. I could only imagine what I looked like but I did know it certainly wasn’t the look we’d had in mind for this photo shoot. ‘You have… umm…’ Tilly hesitantly pointed at my head.
I looked back, blankly. ‘What?’
‘In your hair.’
‘What? What’s in my hair?’ My voice kicked up an octave. I didn’t especially want to know what was in my hair. But neither did I want what was in my hair to remain there. I put my hand up warily and felt around. Nothing.
‘Can you get it?’
Tilly shook her head. ‘I can’t. I can’t touch it!’
‘What? You can’t touch what? Where is it?’ Visions of hideous things crawling about on my head now filled my mind. I bent over and shook my head but nothing obvious plopped out on the beach. I looked back at Tilly, hopeful.
She shook her head. Then took a picture.
‘What are you doing?’ I squeaked in horror.
Tilly turned the camera and showed me the screen.
Nope. Definitely not the look we’d been aiming for to showcase these pieces on my blog. Moments ago I’d been dressed in a full-length, organic cotton sundress, its laced bodice giving way to a floaty, bias skirt, all in the softest shade of lemon. My shiny, deep auburn hair had been swept artfully to the side, softly teased curls contrasting with the colour of the fabric. The image on the screen now showed that there was absolutely nothing artful about my current look. The dress was plastered to my body, its pale colour and fine fabric meaning that it had helpfully gone completely see-through the moment it got wet. My hair had returned to its natural poker-straight state and clung in strands to the front of the dress and my upper arms. I peered at the screen again for direction, then reached up. A piece of seaweed had wound itself around my hair and was now clinging to the side of my head, just above my ear. Tentatively exploring my hair with my fingers, I brushed against something slimy. Biting back a squeal, I tried again. Forcing my hand to close on the slippery tail, I yanked and felt it give. Flinging the offending piece of seaweed back towards the waves, I turned back to Tilly.
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